


in all the world

by hitlikehammers



Series: The Anti-Geode League (or: Bucky Barnes and His Gourmet Glazed Ham) [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Bucky is Serious About Glazing His Christmas Ham, Christmas Fluff, Commandos Do Christmas, Episode 2.10 Spoilers, Episode Fix-it, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Protecting Their Own, Slice of Life, not even kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trip's got a visit to make before he gets to try that famous Barnes Glazed Ham.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2757935">in the land of the living</a>, in which Antoine Triplett emerges from Episode 2.10 just fine and dandy, thank you <i>very</i> much.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	in all the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gossamernotes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamernotes/gifts).



> Entirely for [gossamernotes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamernotes), based on a comment made about [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2757935) that is probably regretted, now that _this_ resulted from it—sorry about that :\
> 
> But yes—unedited (as-yet), and rather overly-indulgent: I still hope this is a little something nice to ease the holiday season.

“And you’re coming around three, right?” Steve asks across the line—and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Trip never thought he’d be thinking about Captain America, the genuine article himself, as _Steve_ , in his own head, let alone out-loud; and of course the out-loud part’s taking more getting used to, but even when it’s just him and his thoughts, it’s still like; it’s still just, like, god _damn_.

Crazy, man. Fucking crazy. Who’da thunk.

“With bells on,” Trip nods, as if someone can see him, because that is just how he rolls. “Just gotta swing by for a quick hello with an old family friend.” He’s sizing up bouquets as he speaks, in fact, on his way to the home where his aunt-who’s-not-his-aunt-but-might-as-damn-well-be-his-aunt-because-he-loves-her-like-nothing-else has been staying for a few years, now. Age is getting to her, like age gets to everybody, Trip figures, but she doesn’t do so hot with long visits. He makes a point to stop by when he can, just to check in. 

He doesn’t know how much time he’s got left to do even that, after all.

“No problem,” Steve assures through the phone. “Buck and I’ve got a thing, too, and apparently the ham needs to cook—”

“Fucking _marinate_ , Stevie,” Bucky’s exasperated tone cuts muffled through the connection, but the way his affection winds into the frustration isn’t a thing that needs to be heard clearly in order to be known. “You can’t just expect it to soak in all the flavor over the last few minutes, you’ve gotta be vigilant about the glaze, Jesus.”

“You marinated it _overnight_ ,” Steve protests, but he doesn’t get very far with that one.

“That was with the first glaze,” Bucky shoots back, clearly offended, and Trip has to bite his tongue so as not to cackle, just a little—he’s gotten to know these two well enough over the past few weeks of recovery, and damn if they’re not the married-est couple you’d ever met; no wonder Granddad talked about them with so much love. No wonder Granddad mourned the coulda-beens for them so hard.

“You have to add layers to get the right flavor profile,” Bucky’s explaining with deliberate tones and pauses, small words to a small child. 

“Right,” and Steve’s eye-roll is audible, “‘cause you’re such a fucking gourmand.”

And Trip still marvels at this: the real Captain America, the human being behind the mask. He feels like the world got cheated out of the genuine article, because strangely enough, Steve Rogers is a hell of a lot more amazing than any uniform or shield could ever make him out to be. 

“Compared to Mr. All-the-Cheese-Things-Taste-The-Same?” Bucky snipes back, and Trip hears clanging in the background alongside Bucky’s muttering as Steve seems to leave the kitchen.

“Right, whatever,” Steve refocuses on Trip in his ear. “S’good ham, though, I can vouch for that,” Steve assures, “but we’re heading out while the ham _marinates_ —”

“And bakes!” Bucky’s voice breaks through.

“And _bakes_ ,” Steve concedes; “but we’ll definitely be back by three.”

“Sounds good,” Trip balances his phone against his shoulder and grabs for a bouquet of lilies—Auntie’s favorites—careful of his still-weak right arm as he tries to wrangle the stems from their neighbors without any casualties. Banner’d been able to un-boulderfy the limb well enough, but it was brand new regenerated tissue: the PT was grueling, and he was still wearing it in a sling for when the muscles gave way.

“Have fun with,” Trip grins when the bouquet comes free, and he decidedly doesn’t think about how he’s going to wrestle his wallet out while holding the flowers, lest that ruin the victory at hand. “Well, whatever ranks high enough on your list of priorities to interrupt the marinating process.”

“Enjoy your visit,” Steve returns; “send your friend our regards.”

“Oh, Aunt Geegee’ll get a kick outta that,” Trip smiles to himself, because she will.

She’ll get one _hell_ of a kick outta that.

——————————————————————

Trip’s nodding to the floor nurse, shooting her a grin that gets returned three-fold, when he hears the laughter.

“ _Stop_ that!” And it’s fond, and flittering, and young, and familiar, and Trip follows it down toward Aunt Geegee’s room.

“But Pegs—” comes a protest, and Trip may have only had the past few weeks to get the tone and flow down pat, but he knows _that_ voice, too.

“Sergeant _Barnes_ ,” and yep, that’s Geegee—he peeks quietly into the room to see what’s going on, and the sight that greets him: well.

It makes sense, of course it makes sense, and it's not like she'd never mentioned them, it's not like he shouldn't have put it together in his head: and he shouldn’t be surprised at all, really, now that he thinks about it. 

Because there’s Bucky Barnes, sat cross-legged on Geegee’s bed with a jar of preserves, maybe, and a sleeve of crackers between his legs, reaching out with the pad of his thumb and cleaning a stray bit of the jam-stuff from under Geegee’s lips.

“What _ever_ will your partner think?” Geegee chides playfully, and fuck all, Trip hasn’t see her look that joyful—the bubbling, incandescent kind that you can’t tie down, can’t put out; Trip hasn’t seen her look that light since before Granddad passed.

“If I stop, he’ll wonder why I’m not spoilin’ our best girl the way she deserves,” Bucky reasons, and dips another cracker into the concoction before lifting it up to Geegee’s mouth, and the aroma’s sweet, tangy: Trip can smell it from the doorway.

“Dear _lord_ , that’s delightful,” Geegee nearly moans around a mouthful, and Bucky chuckles warmly.

“It’s the Jack,” he leans in, whispers conspiratorially and draws another giggle out of Trip’s aunt, the likes of which Trip’s not entirely sure he’s ever heard before. 

“I don’t think I’m meant to be drinking,” Auntie notes thoughtfully, but Trip sees the subtle pout of mischief on Bucky’s lips that curls up the corners of Geegee's mouth in kind. She huffs, and nods to the container.

“Fine then. Get back to spoiling me, soldier,” she demands, and in that devastatingly impossible way of hers, she’s still got as much authority in her voice as she ever did. “And best get it over with before he gets back, else I’ll have to keep you both here to water me all afternoon.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “And I suspect you need to be off, lest the ham burn down your flat.”

 _Glaze_ , Trip thinks. He’s feeding her the damned _ham-glaze_ , because Aunt Geegee hates ham and always has and Bucky Barnes apparently knows that and—

“Stark’s got it covered,” Bucky’s assuring her, offering her another cracker, which she chomps into happily. 

“Howard?”

And Bucky doesn’t show it, but Trip knows, he _knows_ somehow that the same ice in the pit of his own stomach is felt by Bucky Barnes in that moment; the moment she starts to slip back.

“Might as well be, Pegs,” Bucky smiles softly at her, runs his thumb across her knuckles as she chews. “Might as well be.”

“Aunt _Geegee_?”

Trip spins toward the words, the voice that comes up behind him; nearly bangs his slinged-up arm into the wall and drops the flowers out from the other arm in the same fell swoop as he faces Steve’s brow quirked in askance, laid over a softly amused sort of gaze, and Trip doesn’t know why, but it makes him feel warm, to see it. Makes him feel like he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

“I couldn’t say Peggy,” Trip starts the story, voice soft as he turns away from watching and faces Steve, head-on. “Came out as ‘Piggy’ when I was real little. Made her laugh like nobody’s business, but she said it wasn’t good for a child to see that, in case I thought she was laughing at _me_ ,” and Trip remembers the day so clear, the red lips grinning at him, the red nails on the hands reaching out. 

“So she told me I was special, and I got to call her Aunt Geegee instead.”

Trip knows he gives himself away by the strain inside his voice, but he doesn’t think it’s a bad thing; doesn’t think he has to guard against it, here and now.

“We’ll only be a minute,” Steve murmurs, steps around Trip toward the door. “Just let me say goodbye, we’ve gotta check dinner, anyway.”

In one hand, Steve’s got full pitcher of water—must have been where he’d gone—but with the other he grasps Trip’s shoulder: steady, solid. A comfort.

It’s a thing Trip’d forgotten along the way, and hadn’t noticed. Not until just now.

“See ya at the Tower?” Steve shoots over his shoulder, and he doesn’t wait for an answer; like he already knows it.

And that’s kind of a comfort, too.

——————————————————————

Trip takes a walk around the floor, real slow. When he gets back to Geegee’s room, it’s just her in it.

Trip doesn’t know if he’s glad, or disappointed, or neither. But he thinks he’d gonna maybe have the time to figure it out, so. That’s nice.

“Oh.”

His Aunt Geegee—the inimitable Peggy Carter—is looking at him with wide, surprised eyes, and for a moment Trip’s afraid that she’s too far back, too far gone to see him, to recognize, and that’d be okay. That’d be okay, because she’ll still like the flowers, because she’s always liked the flowers, but.

Trip’s not above admitting that he wants her to know _he_ was there.

“Oh,” and her voice is softer, now, and Trip holds his breath until she sighs happily, almost, and smiles at him wide, if a little bit tired.

“Antoine, darling,” she says, reaching out a hand that’s weather, yes, but still steady. Still strong. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Aunt Geegee,” Trip grins right back, leans down to kiss both her cheeks and hand her the bouquet, and he feels that warmth that’d been niggling at him since he’d woke up in the hospital with a rock-arm flood his veins full force when he looks at her: and it’s then that he knows it. Knows what the warmth is, for certain; knows what it’s trying to tell him.

“These are beautiful,” she whispers, marveling at them for a moment before pressing her face into the long fingertips of the petals. “My favorite scent in all the world.”

Trip grins wider, and takes a seat when she gestures at the chair near the bed—Bucky hadn’t bothered, though.

So neither does he.

And Geegee grins at him, like she knows something secret, something sacred. Trip thinks whatever it is, he might come to know it, too.

They talk aimlessly, for a bit: his Auntie scolds him for the arm he’s got hanging close to the chest, fusses as much as she’s able. Trip ventures to tease her for the alcohol on her breath that he can’t _really_ smell, but he gets a blush out of her and a grin that nearly breaks her face, so it’s worth it. And it doesn’t last long—it never does, anymore; hasn’t for a good long time—but they make the most of it, while it lasts.

While she lasts.

“You have plans for the day, don’t you, love?” she asks him, grasps his hand as tight as she can as she starts to drift, about to give in to either sleep or the loss of the moment itself, in the now. “You’re not going to be on your own?”

“No,” Trip grasps her hand back, clutches it full ‘round in the only hand he has to spare. “No” he murmurs back; “not on my own.”

Funny thing, that truth is. Feels strange.

Feels nice.

“Oh, good. That’s very good,” Geegee yawns, blinks very slow, and Trip eases her further back onto her pillows, careful and soft. “Don’t want to keep you.”

He knows she won’t know him, if he lingers, so he kisses her forehead and wishes her pleasant dreams.

“Gabe.”

Her voice is different, when it stops him at the door on his way out; her voice is different when she’s Agent Peggy Carter, instead of his Aunt _Geegee because it’ll be a cold day in the Devil’s lair before I have anyone calling me ‘Maggie’, Antoine Triplett_. Her voice is different. 

Trip closes his eyes, calls on his grandfather’s strength. “Yeah, Peggy?”

“Tell Antoinette that it’s a boy,” Peggy tells him, soft and half-asleep, but oddly certain. “The baby,” she whispers, drifting fast. “It’s a boy, I’m sure of it.”

“Will do, Peggy.”

And she’s asleep, and Trip takes his leave, and he thinks about lilies, and red nails, and bourbon glaze and family lost to time. 

But then he thinks about family a little bit more, and wonders if maybe, just maybe, nothing’s lost forever; maybe things just sometimes come back around in a different shape than you remember. 

He shakes off the deep thinking, though, and gets a cab back to Midtown.

He’s fucking starving, and he could go for some goddamn ham.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com), if you roll that way.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I am so behind on holiday-gift-ish fics that I owe people, and if I owe you one that's now late I've probably told you and apologized as a result—the week got away from me and I wasn't near my computer much at all—but if I mentioned a fic that I was writing you, and you haven't seen it pop up yet? It's coming, I promise, and apologies for the delays.


End file.
